Waiting To Happen
by Beloved-the-Fool
Summary: A follow-up from "Clean Like You" and "Dirty Like You", this story takes place immediately following those two concurrent scenes. DISCLAIMER: Lie To Me, still not mine.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I intend for there to be more chapters to this. Not entirely sure where The Muse will lead me, but I'll post updates as frequently as possible. Thanks for reading! Reviews and feedback are always GREATLY appreciated!**

* * *

It hadn't taken long.

Gillian had moved fairly rapidly from arousal to frustration to irritation. All that had taken less than a couple minutes, and now she was hurtling double-time toward a low-simmering anger. She yanked her coat from the coat rack with considerably more force than was strictly necessary, causing it to teeter precariously back and forth in her wake as she flung herself into the corridor.

Damn, but he was an infuriating man! Sit and stare at her for minutes on end, then whip her into a lust-fueled frenzy in a matter of seconds, then beat a hasty retreat rather than- Than what? Honestly, what _did_ she expect? It was just part and parcel of Cal's way of handling this- this—whatever this was between them. One semi-aggressive step forward, ten exasperating steps back.

Gillian sighed. It was her own fault, really. Early on in their relationship, Cal had made it abundantly clear (_sans words, naturally_) that he was interested. Truth be told, she had been, too. Still was. More so now than ever. But their timing was off back then, with two marriages hanging in the balance and a fledgling business venture to launch into the stratosphere of success. And so she had come up with The Line. It kept everything neat and organized and safe. Still, she had filed away their mutual attraction for future reference. Forget vocal analysis and psychology. Compartmentalization: that was her _real_ specialty.

She set aside her attraction (_feelings, whatever_) and put a professional polish on their relationship. Not that Cal made it easy, what with his incessant flirting. She had resisted that at first, tried to keep it at bay. She tried ignoring it. She tried reminding him of boundaries. But with every line she drew in the sand, he tromped stubbornly over it like a toddler in a sandbox, right up into her personal space. The more distanced and professional and discouraging of his behaviour she attempted to be, the more he seemed to take it as a personal challenge, invading her space more frequently with an almost obscene glee.

She eventually realized that the only way to handle him when he got like that was to remain unflappable and give as good as she got. To this day, she still relished the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face the first time she stepped forward rather than back when he advanced on her and how his eyes widened and his jaw dropped just a little at her ribald riposte to his innuendo. He had masked it quickly; and had he not been training her in _his _science, she might have missed it altogether. A mask can hide many things but not the eyes. Not those Windows to the Soul. And so she saw how her proximity had darkened his eyes, caused the edges of his pupils to spread like drops of ink. As it was, it gave her a rush, that fleeting feeling of power _over_ the indomitable Cal Lightman. And that, too, she filed away for future reference.

By the time their timing was less "off", The Line had become such a deeply ingrained habit with her that she didn't really know how to back off from it. And poor Cal, she had him trained to Pavlovian levels so that his innuendo and retreat had become second nature.

And so, they carried on in their same old way, just praying they'd not left it too late to say…what they'd meant to say.

* * *

When she pushed the button to call up the elevator, she was surprised that it was already at her floor rather than the lobby level as it normally was at this time of the evening. The doors slid immediately apart.

And there he was, leaning with feigned casualness against the back wall with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his laser-point eyes fastened to her. He hadn't left after all. He'd waited there. Lurking. Waiting for _her. _He hadn't finished with her yet. The game was still very much _on._

Neither one of them had moved since the doors opened. He was still as a statue, piercing her with that intense gaze that said, "I have breached your guard and am plundering your every thought at this very moment and am deciding what to do with what I learn from you." Gillian felt pinned to the wall by that stare; she wanted nothing more than to look away but instead returned it with a dogged determination that made her quite proud of herself. She'd witnessed many a strong person crack and crumble under the weight of that trademark stare, and she'd be damned if she would add herself to that ever-lengthening list.

His irises had reduced themselves to sliver-thin rings around those wide, dark centres; and this time, there was little mystery what was on his mind.

He advanced on her with the graceful suddenness of a jungle cat on the prowl. One moment, he was leaning against the wall, still and tense as a coiled spring, The next, he was so close to her that the tips of their noses nearly touched, and she could taste the air he breathed.

His gaze never wavered; his expression did not shift. Everything just came to a sudden stop as the moment hung there, balanced on knife's-edge tension. Time stopped. Their breathing ceased. Even the rushing sound of her blood, which had been pounding in her ears just a second ago, seemed to stop cold. There was a brief but deafening silence. Then everything jarred back into motion.

Gillian managed to gasp a quick, sharp breath as Cal's mouth crashed over hers. His hands darted up to tangle in her hair as he kissed her with a fierceness she had only dreamed of. Every nerve ending in her body snapped to high-alert, and a thrilling electricity crackled through her limbs as long-repressed desire burst to the surface and coursed through her veins, hot and savage. Her feverish, unrestrained passion was a match for his own as the frenzied kiss escalated to dizzying extremes. Even with her eyes shut tight, Gillian could almost _see_ the edges of her vision go dark and blurry, and her legs turned to jelly.

Sensing her weakness, Cal untangled the fingers of one hand from her hair. His arm snaked around her, crushing her against him and pressing into her with everything he had. He spun them, and Gillian felt the elevator car's railing bite into the small of her back. It should have hurt, but she found it too hard to care with his tongue exploring the contours of hers and his undeniable arousal thrust insistently against her pelvis. At some point – and she couldn't possibly have said _when_ even if you offered her a million dollars – she had gripped the front of his shirt, fisting it tightly in trembling hands. She pulled reflexively and heard several buttons clinking against the elevator floor.

It was the tiny sounds of those buttons bouncing near their feet that brought her abruptly to her senses, and with as much force as she had just pulled, she shoved Cal away from her. Gillian panted and gasped as she fought to recover herself, grabbing the railing behind her for support. Cal stumbled backward, eyes as wide with shock as if she had slapped him. Relentlessly, he advanced on her once more; but Gillian slammed her flattened palm against his chest, killing his momentum.

Undeterred, he pushed her arm aside and stepped once again into her personal space, hands clutching her upper arms. His eyes roamed her face frantically, trying to speed-read the situation and Gillian's emotions and to make sense of what she'd done.

"Let's don't fight this, darlin'. Please. Not anymore. I want you, Gill. With every last fibre of my being, I want you; and I _know_ you want me, too. Please, Gill. I want to _give in_. We need each other; we need _this. _ We've fought it for so long, and I'm sick and bloody tired of fighting it. We _deserve_ this. We owe it to ourselves. _Please. __**Please.**_ I _want_ you, Gill. I desperately _want_ you." Cal's voice was low and ragged and treacherous with raw emotion as he pleaded with her. Begging. He was _begging_ her to be with him. And she might not have been able to resist the combination of his scent and _that_ _voice_ and the feel of his body pressed against hers and the taste of him still on her swollen lips were it not for his choice of words. Those words hit her like a bucket of ice water and left her cold, the fire he had stoked within her just moments before slowly burning out and being replaced with a hollow chill. In the end, those words crawled under her skin and burrowed their way into her heart. Words he had intended to urge her closer to him only served to drive her back.

She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt the tears drip from her chin to fall scalding onto her chest. Cal looked confused and hurt and upset and a million other things she could see plainly but couldn't name fast enough as she pushed him away again, backing out of the elevator.

"Deserve, Cal? _Owe?_ Need? Want? Is that all we have to offer each other after all this time?" She shook her head fiercely, sending tears splashing in every direction. "It's not enough, Cal. I'm sorry, but it just isn't. I won't be your temporary fix until some better offer with a high hemline and low morals comes along to distract you."

She took one more step back and pressed the button with her thumb. Her voice sounded empty and faint when she spoke again.

"_I want you_ doesn't mean much without _I love you_, Cal. And both are pretty meaningless without _I choose you._"

The doors whispered closed, and Cal Lightman descended in stunned silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for giving me your time by reading and reviewing. I truly appreciate the feedback! Your words give me the warm fuzzies. **

**I've never written Emily before, so I hope I captured her spirit here. **

**Both jenron and solveariddle hit on part of where we're heading: the one-night-stand issue, with Cal as the master of it. I fully agree that Cal would never cheat on Gill once they were together. Honestly, I don't think Gill would think he'd cheat on her, either. What she _did_ think, though, was that Cal wasn't looking to "be together" with her in any sort of permanent sense but rather just in the way he and all the short-timers that sailed on and off the show were "together."**

**That is all.**

**Oh, wait! F-bomb warning! **

**Now, that is really all.**

* * *

"_I want you_ doesn't mean much without _I love you_, Cal. And both are pretty meaningless without _I choose you._"

* * *

It all appeared to have gone horribly wrong.

That was the only thought circling in an endless loop through Cal's buzzing mind as he drove away from the office. Horribly, horribly wrong. To say he felt confused would be a gross understatement of his current status. No, confused didn't even begin to touch the _surface_ of what he felt. He was feeling a lot of things – _an awful lot of things –_ some of which he had no names for but many that he could readily identify. Never in his life had he felt so _very_ many things at once; feelings and the processing thereof (and, apparently, the demonstrating thereof) were not his forte. He was finding it all rather overwhelming, to be quite honest; and he really thought his brain might literally crawl right out of his skull and fling itself out the window of his moving car in a suicidal fit of pique.

He took a deep breath and began to take stock of the thousand threads of feeling as he tried to single them out from the tangled knot they had formed in his gut.

Rejection. Well, that one was easy enough to identify. Gillian had flat-out rejected him, which was a thing he had always feared. It was one of the primary reasons he hadn't acted on his feelings earlier. Now, wait. She hadn't _flat-out_ rejected him, had she? No, she had seemed quite…receptive, at first. Receptive _and_ deliciously responsive. Which only made her abrupt shift all the more—

Baffling. He was absolutely baffled by the whole thing. One moment, there he was in the middle of the most enjoyable thing he'd ever experienced. The next moment, it was, well…quite the _opposite_ of enjoyable. The entire situation had gone pear-shaped so suddenly, and that left him feeling very—

Disappointed. He really had thought they were finally getting somewhere, that they were getting beyond The Line and beyond all their hang-ups and personal baggage. He'd thought they were on the brink of something wild and alive and meaningful. And he had been very excited about that progress. _Very_ excited. _Painfully_ so, really. Which made her rejection so incredibly—

Frustrating. Cor, but he was frustrated! That, also, _painfully_. And that thought caused him to squirm in the driver's seat in a vain effort to relieve some of the ache and pressure emanating from his terribly frustrated nether-region. He winced, absolutely certain that he had never, _never_ experienced this level of…frustration…in his entire life, and he loudly and rather colourfully cursed the genetics that had provided him with balls in the first place. Maybe he'd get lucky and they'd follow his self-loathing brain in its suicidal plunge out the window. And good riddance to it all, because his head really _fucking_ _hurt._

Both of them.

Which led him to realize he was also feeling something rather acute, and that something's name was—

Pain. Not just physical pain and mental pain, which was all bad enough, thank you so _very_ bloody much. Cal was experiencing emotional pain the likes of which he wouldn't wish on the lowest scum of the earth. Which, coincidentally, he just happened to also be feeling like at the moment…though he didn't understand exactly why except that he knew he had – somehow – caused Gillian a great deal of pain when what he really intended was to bring great happiness and even greater pleasure.

Pleasure was definitely **not** something he was feeling. And that little fact was a sodding shame, because he had no doubt whatsoever that being with Gillian would send him rocketing into new realms of pleasure beyond all mortal ken. It was a thought he had considered often and vigorously and vividly.

He winced again, knowing it would behoove him to avoid all association with the notions of "Gillian" and "pleasure" until he could get home to his sofa and a soothing bag of frozen peas. Frozen peas sounded brilliant at that moment. Frozen peas and a tumbler of good scotch.

The whole situation was just so distressing and depressing. Under such circumstances, he would normally go to some unnamed establishment in the seedier parts of town and drink himself stupid. And that unwise activity was always – always – followed by a call to the cell phone of his very best friend. Whom he could _not_ now call, having bollocksed things up with her to an unfathomably Olympic level. And he still wasn't even certain _how._

So between his gonads trying to kill him and his best friend wanting to, he decided to forego the bar this round and go straight home to the peas.

* * *

Cal hobbled awkwardly toward the sofa, a bottle of scotch and a glass juggled in one hand and the precious bag of peas in the other. Dropping the bag onto the cushion, he set the glass on the table, unstoppered the bottle, and gave himself a generous pour. Gingerly, he eased himself down onto the cushion and adjusted the blissfully cold bag underneath him. He grabbed the glass from the table and gulped a sizeable swig. The radiating warmth of the scotch as it burned its way down his throat provided a pleasant counterpoint to his rapidly freezing crotch. Sighing, he fell back and allowed his eyes to sink closed. He was positively knackered. He really hoped to get well shit-faced and then escape this day in sleep. He lifted the glass to his lips and took another long pull. His brow furrowed as he tried to decide if the sound he heard was just the pounding of his head or if it was footsteps.

"Ummm, Dad? Why are you sitting on food?"

He cracked on eye reluctantly open and mumbled, "You _don't _wanna know, Em. Trust me on that."

"Fine," Emily replied, "but I hope you plan to throw it away when you're done, because I am _not_ eating that." When he didn't so much as crack a smile, Emily studied him in puzzlement and concern.

"Stop reading me, Emily," Cal groused.

"Well, I wouldn't need to if you were more forthcoming about what's going on with you," came her glib reply. She plopped down heavily beside him, jostling him and eliciting a miserable groan. "Come on, Dad; spill. What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I resent the implication," Cal said.

"Stop deflecting. Start talking," she demanded lightly.

"Well, luv, as I didn't know what I was waiting for, I decided to stop waiting and let Gillian know how I felt about her. Suffice to say it could've gone better."

"Oh, geez, Dad. What did you _say_ to her?!"

"Nothing!" he answered. "Well, nothing that should've caused it to go so badly. I mean, I just…I just told her how I felt, y'know? And I kissed her, and – that bit went really, bloody well if I do say so. I mean, _really_ well, at first—"

"Ew, Dad. Seriously? Do you _want_ me to throw up on you? Gloss over the sordid details, please, and just tell me the important parts like what you did wrong. So…you said you love her, and then you kissed her. And then?"

"Well, I _may_ have kissed her first, before I said anything…"

"_May_ have?"

"Ok, _did. Did_ kiss her first. But, y'know, she seemed ok with it. I mean, really _quite_ ok—"

"DAD!"

"Sorry, luv. No, but then next thing I know, right, she's shoving me across the elevator and—"

Emily wrinkled her face in dismay. "Wait, you accosted her in the elevator? Classy, Dad."

"—**_and_**," Cal continued, ignoring the dig, "then I told her how I felt, and she started crying and pushing me away again; and then she sent me packing."

Emily's eyes had gone wide. "You made Gillian _cry_? Why would you _do_ that?"

"Well, it wasn't deliberate, was it?!" Cal shouted defensively. He immediately regretted raising his voice to his daughter, partly because she didn't deserve it but mostly because it caused his skull to fill with daggers of pain in a way that made even his teeth hurt. "Bloody hell," he exclaimed, pressing the heel of one palm against one closed eye and lifting the glass to his lips with the other hand. He drained the last of the amber liquid from the tumbler and let his arm fall to the cushion.

"So…I don't get it," Emily began.

"Nor do I, luv," Cal croaked.

"It just doesn't sound like Gillian. I mean, why would she react that way to you saying you love her? You must've left something out when you told me what happened," she concluded, shaking her head. "Let's go over this again. You kissed her," Emily said, ticking off one finger.

"Yes."

"And then she shoved you away." She ticked off another finger.

"Yes."

"And then you said you love her," she said as she ticked a third.

"Yes. Well. No. Not in those _precise_ words, exactly, no. But, yeah, _in essence_, right, yeah. Yeah."

"Maybe you should tell me your _precise, exact_ words," said Emily, gripping Cal's chin like that of a scolded child.

Cal slowly opened his eyes and looked at his daughter, with her lips drawn into a disapproving line and her eyebrows raised in expectation. Cal sighed and shifted to face her, only belatedly realizing what a mistake that was. He grimaced and readjusted his legumes while Emily looked away and pretended not to see anything.

"First off," he began with a strained voice. "First off, it is bloody awkward to be having this sort of conversation with _my child._"

"I'm not a child anymore, Dad," Emily said, rolling her eyes.

"Don't remind me. And thanks for that, by the way," he sulked. "Wonderful way to kick a man when he's down. Must get that from your mum."

"Stalling!" To Emily, Cal was often transparent as glass.

"Fine. Well, what I told her _precisely_ was… I think my exact words were that I wanted her." He hesitated a second before adding, "and that I knew she wanted me, too. And, y'know…that we should…y'know…that we belonged together. Owed it to ourselves to, well…" His voice trailed off as Emily just stared at him. She blinked a few times then tilted her head (_she looked so like him when she did that)_ and spoke.

"That was potentially the biggest bonehead move in the history of all boneheadery, Dad. Geez! What is _wrong_ with you? You're the proverbial bull in a china shop! This is _Gillian_ we're talking about. You- You- jump her in an elevator, essentially tell her you just wanna do her right there—"

"Oi! Watch your mouth, girl!"

"It's the truth, Dad. A hard truth is better for you than a soft lie; isn't that what you say? You really blew it. You basically treated her like one of your one-night stands."

"EM-I-LY!" he exclaimed forcefully, eyes wide. "Who taught you to talk like that?"

"I get it from you," she retorted. "Dad, seriously. What's wrong with, 'I love you, Gillian'? She isn't like them, you know," she finished gently, reaching out to stroke his hair back from his forehead in a comforting gesture.

Cal rolled his eyes back toward his daughter, looking morose and rather pitiful. "I know she isn't, darlin'. I know that. There is _no one_ like her. I hadn't meant to imply- I really _am_ shit at this stuff! Look, this is why I tend to avoid situation like this, that involve—"

"Talking to other humans?" Emily quipped with a cheeky smirk. So like her father, that girl.

Cal huffed a soft laugh through his nose and reached over to take his girl's tiny hand in his. "Yeah, somethin' like that," he said quietly. "How'd you get so wise when it comes to relationships, eh? Can't have been from watching your parents. Well, maybe what _not_ to do." He paused, and Emily took the opportunity to move closer and hug him, snuggling her head against his chest.

"All kidding aside, I've learned a lot from you, Dad. I've always thought you and I have a great relationship. I mean, sure we have our ups and downs, but…way more 'ups' than 'downs', don't you think?"

Cal squeezed her tight, and pressed a tender kiss to the top of her dark curls. "_Way_ more, yeah. Love ya, Em."

"I love you, too, Dad," she said, returning the squeeze. "See? You _are_ capable of saying those words without bollocksing it up." Even though he couldn't see her face, Cal could hear the smile in his daughter's voice. But he could also hear the sincerity, and he loved her for it all the more. Emily always believed in him no matter how much he screwed up. Warts and all, she loved him. As though sensing his thoughts, Emily added, "She loves you, too, Dad. Trust me on that. And you definitely have some damage control to do, but I really believe that you and Gillian are meant for each other, So it'll all work out. You just need to re-think your approach. I know you like everything done _your_ way, but you're going to have to do this on _her_ terms. Ya know?"

They fell silent and eventually drifted off to sleep, Cal holding his not-so-little girl in his arms. At any given time, it was the best place for him to be in the whole of the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter is (probably obviously) concurrent with the Cal/Emily one. Just sayin'.**

**Thanks for you faithful few who stick with me. I appreciate you more than you know! **

**FYI, I've got the start of chapter 4 going...somewhere. Not sure where, exactly. But it's going.**

* * *

Gillian did not consider herself childish. Child_like _sometimes perhaps – she did love her chocolate pudding and orange slushies – but certainly not child_ish._ And so it only made her feel worse than she already did when the elevator doors closed on a shocked Cal Lightman, and she plopped down on the floor and summarily burst into tears. And not the demure tears she had cried when she was _in_ that elevator with Cal; oh, no. This was a full-scale, no-holds-barred emotional assault. The dam had burst, and composed, level-headed Gillian Foster sat right on the hallway floor beside the elevator and fell completely apart.

She sat there on the floor in her offices bawling her eyes out like a baby. She cried until her shoulders shook. She cried until the hard knot in her throat was dislodged by sobby hiccups. She would have cried until the horrid, hollow ache in her chest dissipated, but she ran out of tears long before even a single finger of that cold, cruel hand squeezing her heart could be pried away.

Eventually, the weeping subsided. Once she had gotten that all out of her system, she began to reflect on the evening and how she had come to be sitting in an empty hallway of an empty building with an empty heart and a full mind rather than filling out Cal's bedsheets and depleting their respective sex drives.

_Woah. Go back. Don't jump to sex first. Put a pin in that, and come back to it later. _There were other things to mull over and attend to before that.

Deal with peripheral details first. She would need to hack into the security camera feed and delete her little hallway performance. Bad enough to feel humiliated while alone, but to have her staff see any of that? To have Cal see any of it? Unthinkable. Gillian stood and began to move. Already, just having something else to focus on was having a calming effect on her abraded emotions. She made a beeline for the lab, thinking of how on earth she would get past Loker's many failsafes. But midway to the lab, she got an idea and changed course. She headed instead for Cal's office, logged in to his computer (_wow, hard to believe someone as paranoid as Cal never changed his password) _and started looking. She knew he kept the feeds, but he would never keep that in an obvious place. It wouldn't be neatly labeled "Security Camera Footage." Searching his heard drive, it didn't take long to locate a folder titled Porn. _Really? __So__ predictable, _thought Gillian rolling her bloodshot eyes. She double-clicked to open the folder. Quickly scanning the various sub-folders and bypassing such colourful titles as "Dirty Double D's" and "Asian Kink", she found what she was looking for and smirked as she double-clicked on a sub-folder called "Graphic Gay Porn."

Jackpot.

Before deleting that segment of the feed, she watched her own meltdown as a detached observer. It was probably some form of psychosis to psychoanalyze oneself like this, but what the hell? Pretty safe to assume the self-respect ship sailed hours ago and was firmly settled at the bottom of the deep blue sea.

She hit delete on the selected segment, closed all the folders, logged out, and turned off the monitor. For a long while, she just sat there staring at the darkened screen in Cal's darkened office with only anemic, watery light seeping in from the EXIT sign out in the corridor.

_Ok, perspective, _she thought as she rubbed her tired eyes. She needed some perspective. She sank back in Cal's chair, spinning it slightly in a soothing side-to-side motion. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Heaven help her, she could _smell_ him. Slightly spicy, warm and clean and some scent that wasn't cologne but just uniquely _him._ He was in every molecule of this office. Immediately, his image appeared behind her closed lids. For a moment, she indulged that image. The broad, strong brow…deeply lined from near-constant furrowing, but that just added to the appeal. Gave him character. Large, piercing eyes with their hypnotic flecks of green and gold. Intense, _knowing_ eyes capable of making a woman feel violated and dirty.

_In a good way._

Easy to get very, _very_ lost in those amazing eyes and never find the way back out again, Cheeks and chin, rough and scruffy. On anyone else, the look would be merely unkempt; but on Cal? It was sexy as hell. And _that_ mouth, _those_ lips. Soft yet firm. She had waited _so long_ to feel his lips against hers, to taste his tongue and feel that velvety warmth gliding over her own. Oh, that had _more_ than lived up to her fantasies. Being kissed like that _by him_…give the man credit: he _really_ knew how to work a set of lips. She hadn't kissed him long enough to bite that bottom lip like she really wanted to. No, it had all been going so fantastically before the wheels came off. Before he stopped working her up again with his lips and tongue and started working his mouth to say the exact wrong thing at what had been (up to that point) the exact oh-so-right time.

Talk about a buzzkill! She knew he wasn't exactly possessed of a silver tongue, but she never in a million years had expected him to make her feel so- so- _cheap._ It blindsided her because with him she had always felt so valued. No matter how low she ever thought of herself…for as worthless as Alec made her feel time and time again…Cal had only ever made her feel safe and loved and _valued_. She had always believed that if their time ever came, he would reveal – for her eyes only – some hidden side of himself. The side he didn't let show but that she sensed in him. She had believed that he would finally strip off that mask he held fast in front of him at all times. He would let her _in, _and he would show her things no one else had or would ever see. And among those secret things would be the depth of how he _valued_ her and _cherished_ her and, yes, wanted her…but more than that. He would tell her unequivocally and in no uncertain terms that he _chose_ her. That all those other women that paraded through his bedroom's revolving door meant _absolutely nothing _to him. That they had come to _him _and maybe filled some shallow, carnal need but that they could never be what he wanted. Because he _chose her_.

But what he had actually said to her tonight…the sound of it was primal only, and it had repulsed her. _Repulsed. _That was a thing she had never anticipated feeling when it came to Cal. She had especially not anticipated feeling that while things were heating up so nicely. What he said to her - that he wanted her - she had imagine him saying that very thing to her. Countless times, she had fantasized about hearing him whisper those words to her, voice husky with desire. But in her fantasies, the _want_ had always been accompanied by something deeper, something more meaningful, something..._more_. But when he said it? When she finally heard those words she had longed to hear from his lips? It felt hollow and it wasn't unique and it sounded _awfully_ like something he could have said to any number of women.

Gillian would NOT be a number. She would not settle for being just another notch in his bedpost. Maybe she was completely deluded from reading too many romance novels and had lost touch with reality when it came to Cal. Maybe she wanted too much from him, more than he was capable of giving. After all, hadn't Helen warned her that he was not one for the long haul? He certainly played _that_ part to the hilt. And yet…

Even though he had wounded her with his ill-considered, ill-timed words, she knew he couldn't possibly have meant it the way it had sounded. He just couldn't have. No way. The man she loved was in there, somewhere. Not that she didn't love him as he is, rough edges and all. She did. But sometimes those rough edges cut deep, and she was only human. So her heart bled from the unintended damage, and she ran and hid to lick her wounds. And as the hurt grew less acute, and the pain started to fade a little, she let herself believe – just a tiny bit – that the other, hidden part of Cal was there. That he _did_ value her, and she wasn't some cheap thrill til the next ride turned up. She let herself believe it because she _had_ to. She simply didn't want to be in a world where she didn't mean as much to Cal as he meant to her.

What worried her was how they would move past this. Because even if she forgave him and offered him the benefit of the doubt, she couldn't _do_ this _for_ him. She couldn't walk him through it. No, he had to come to it on his own. He had to, or else it was meaningless.

And what if he didn't? What if they _never_ got past this?

Then Helen was right: she would find herself a _very_ lonely woman, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

On most days, Cal looked forward to arriving at the office. He enjoyed taking on challenging cases and sinking his teeth into them, shaking them about like a dog worrying a bone. He enjoyed running his own show. He enjoyed mentoring Torres…even when she didn't listen to him or follow his instructions, because it was always so interesting to see what direction she went in. He even enjoyed – to some extent – working with Loker. Well, as much as one _could_ enjoy dealing with an arrogant, self-important little tosser like that. Loker could, Cal supposed, say the same thing about him. Probably had done, in fact, and in far less flattering terms.

But the thing he enjoyed most – more than all the other things added together and multiplied by 1,000 – was Gillian. _Seeing_ Gillian. Being seen _by_ Gillian. Being _greeted_ by Gillian. When Gillian _smiled _at him…or smirked…or looked exasperated…or flustered…or – saints preserve us! – aroused. Any expression and response, really, so long as her focus was on _him._

Except today. Today was different. The thought of seeing Gillian today filled him with dread. Absolute dread. Because he didn't really know how to handle this, did he? How to move forward. How to fix what he'd unwittingly broken. How to get them back on track and headed in the right direction. And, least of all, how – as Emily had pointed out was _vital_ – to do so on Gillian's terms. Just how the bloody hell was he supposed to do that? Em had been _no_ help whatsoever when he'd posed that question to her this morning as she ate her breakfast before school. What she did do (and rightly so, he grudgingly admitted now) was point out that it wasn't _her_ job to know that. _He_ loved Gillian; it was _ his_ job to figure out how to tell her without doing further damage.

_Good luck with that, by the way._

Cal pulled into the parking garage, parked his car, and killed the engine. He looked from his steering wheel to the elevator and back to his steering wheel. He really should've just stayed home today. He _had_ actually considered doing that very thing. He hadn't slept last night. At. All. Not a single wink. Couldn't even get his eyes to stay closed. Every time he closed them, they sprang back open like window shades retracting. So when his alarm sounded that morning, he had already been wide awake and was immediately tempted to phone in sick. It wasn't like Cal to back down or to run away from a challenge, but that was when he thought he had the slightest snowball's chance in hell of sussing out a solution and emerging triumphant. He didn't like to fail. Who does? But he _really_ hated it, because it usually meant he had missed something. Overlooked something. And overlooking things just really pissed him off.

Truth be told, he rarely overlooked things, professionally speaking. His work was largely unimpeachable. Unorthodox, maybe; but unimpeachable. His personal life, though… Well, that was a whole different can of worms, wasn't it? Yep.

And last night? Can: opened. Worms: everywhere.

Cal looked back at the elevator. He scowled at it as though it was somehow at fault for his current predicament. It stared blankly back at him, having the audacity to be unmoved. _Piece of shit, _he thought crankily, letting his head drop to rest on his hands which were still clutching the steering wheel in a deathgrip. He'd been awake all bloody night and not a single useful idea had come to him. He had sod-all. But he couldn't very well sit in his car all day. Ready or not, he was going to have to go in. He'd got this far in life being aces at thinking on his feet; he would just have to trust his luck to hold out.

Except that when it came to Gillian, Cal had trouble thinking coherently. And he would _definitely_ prefer to be off his feet with her than on. Aye-aye, shepherd's pie.

He exited his car, armed the alarm, and made for the elevator. At the last moment, he veered away from it, deciding he preferred to take the stairs. _Take that, you smarmy lift._

Cal Lightman: 1. Elevator: 0.

Revel in the small victories.

Cal arrived at their floor sooner than he would have liked. He paused with a hand on the door, steeled himself with an unsteady breath and turned the handle.

His timing was atrocious. She exited her office just as he entered the corridor; so he quickly took the first left, planning to cut through the lab and sneak to his office by way of his library.

Had he been capable of thinking on his feet, he'd have known she would anticipate the move. As he was scarcely thinking _at all_ by this point, however, she caught him completely off guard when she stepped into the doorway between his office and library.

_Cut off at the pass!_

"Morning, Cal," Gillian said mildly.

"Morning, luv. Fancy seeing you here. How ya doin'? Y'alright?" Cal schooled his features into his most neutral expression and prepared for…well, he wasn't sure what, but he prepared for it nonetheless. _Fire at will, darlin'._

"Wonderful, thanks. I brought you something," she said, bringing forward what she had been holding behind her back and dropping it in front of him. Reflexively, his arms shot out to catch it: a thick, heavy file. He raised an eyebrow in query. "Payroll files, Cal. And financial reports. You were supposed to have signed off on them three weeks ago. The accountant is getting antsy. The rest of the files are on your desk." She spun on her heels and made for the door.

"Today, Cal," she threw over her shoulder with measured calm as she made her exit. "It won't go away just because you don't address it."

* * *

Cal stood there in her wake, mouth agape. Whatever he had been prepared for, it wasn't _that_. What was _that_, exactly, anyway? He had expected her to confront him or scold him or something along those lines. But this? It was the opposite of confrontation. It was avoidance, and it irked him just a little bit. No, quite a lot, actually. No matter that _he_ had been trying to avoid _her_ when he first arrived. Entirely different, that was. And then – as if on cue – he could hear Emily reminding him that this matter needed to be handled on Gillian's terms. Cal pulled a face but - to his credit - didn't have a tantrum.

_Alright, Gill. This is what it takes to get back on track? Done._

Resigned to doing this on her terms (whatever the bloody hell that entailed) Cal dropped into his chair and shoved the armload of files onto his desk. Cal logged in, ran his standard paranoid processes which included access logs for his workstation. Normally, that started with his log out the day prior and ended with his current log in. Nothing in between. Today, however, was different. There was another log on/off in between the two he knew were his, and it had occurred _after_ he had left the office with his tail between his legs. He didn't need to check the security camera feed from his office to know it had been Gill.

Maybe it should've bothered him that she knew him well enough to guess his password or that she felt she had the right to access his computer without his consent, even after…whatever that was that happened between them last night. Truth was, though, that he wasn't bothered. Not in the slightest. He trusted her, and he knew she would never violate that trust. Which is why he never bothered to change his password, despite Loker's monthly email reminders to the staff to do just that and despite that Cal knew that Gill had known his password for donkey's years. No one else had ever sussed it; only Gillian had, because she knew him so well.

_What were you up to, eh, gorgeous?_

Resisting the urge to go down that particular rabbit hole (_for now_), Cal sighed and pulled out the first stack of sheets from the piles Gillian had left him.

* * *

Three hours.

That's how long he managed to stay at his desk working on financial crap. Mostly. He may have checked his emails a time or seven. Also, may have played a hand of video poker. Okay, three hands, but the first two didn't count because he wasn't really trying. There also might have been a few minutes (eighteen. –ish.) spent watching the video feed from Foster's office.

She sat at her desk looking all classy and delicious in that slim, tailored blouse that he could almost-but-not-quite see right down the front of. Cal watched her with rapt attention. He adored the way the pink tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just a tiny little bit when she was focusing hard on something. Or pretending to. Cal was willing to bet she was faking that concentration. Probably knew he was watching her. Probably knew, too, the sorts of thoughts he entertained while doing so. He was just about to switch off the feed and go dutifully back to the sodding financials, but her movements caught his eye once more.

With deliberate grace and grasping her own hand, she slowly lifted her arms and stretched. It was languorous and luxurious, and Cal was already captivated by the beauty of her movements. He just couldn't tear his eyes off her.

And then she did it: she went for the killshot.

Arms still outstretched over her head, she looked right at the security camera. Right. At. It. At _him_. And right on cue, Cal's blood pressure shot through the roof as his pulse found another gear and dragged his libido along for the ride.

Cal watched as Gillian let her head recline and then arched her back. Arched.

_Bloody hell! _The troops were stirring now. There was a _definite_ uprising in the south.

And as if the arching wasn't torment enough, Gillian then proceeded to move her stretched torso in a rhythmic side-to-side wiggle.

_Undulating!_ …was the only word Cal's brain was shrieking at him when his resolve finally snapped like an over-dry twig. He sprinted – _sprinted_ – to Gillian's office and burst through the door without knocking, arriving wide-eyed, red-faced, hot-blooded and not even trying to hide the half-crazed look in his eyes.

Gillian's face was a masterpiece of practiced nonchalance. "Where's the fire?" she asked coolly. "Questions about the payroll reports?"

Cal narrowed his eyes and studied her for a long, quiet moment. It was like some sort of absurd standoff. Twenty paces at high noon. Turn and draw.

There it was. She was good. Oh, she was _very_ good. But this was _his_ science, and he may not know what she wanted but he knew _her_ better than the back of his own hand. So even though he might not be able to see _everything_ where she was concerned, he knew her tells; and that's what he was looking for as he peered at her inscrutable features. It was a slight thing, nigh-imperceptible. _Nigh_ being the operative word here. And _nigh_ was not _entirely_, so he caught it: the slight shift of her jaw to the right and then back. Again. And again. She was grinding her teeth. Just a little. She only did that when she was angry. Angry and holding it in to beat the band.

Cal strode purposefully up to her desk and leaned over until his eyes were on an even level to hers, propping himself on spread hands.

"You're pissed," he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm not pissed, Cal," she said with false serenity.

"Bollocks you're not," he challenged, moving his face within inches of hers.

She continued to meet his stare with a stillness that reminded him of a cobra preparing to strike, and Cal felt his blood run momentarily cold. _That's new._

"I'm not pissed, Cal," she reiterated. Her aloof, dismissive demeanor was telling one story, but her gaze was telling a different one entirely. Shouting it, almost. Which one was the truth? Cal knew. The ayes have it; the eyes have it. Aye-aye.

"Right," he said softly. "Not pissed." He paused and chewed at the corner of his mouth while he considered his next words carefully. Because even less than he wanted the cobra to strike at him did he want her to run scared.

"Not pissed; hurt, then. Eh? Yeah." Gillian opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off on the inhale. "Don't even try to deny it," he continued gently, his gaze softening. "You may be my blind spot, but even _I _can't fail to see that pain you're trying so hard not to show me, darlin'. I see it, obtuse though I can sometimes be."

Fear. Uncertainty. Panic. And, yes, anger. Little flashes of those emotions flickered on and off like fireflies against evening dusk in her impossibly blue eyes. But ever-present and unchanged was the pain. The pain Cal knew he had caused, unintentional or not. Guilt settled like a small stone in his stomach, a hard and heavy weight that belied its size.

He started to speak, not knowing or caring what he would say. He only knew he had to do something, _say_ something to take away that pain clouding her beautiful eyes.

He started to speak, but Gillian beat him to the punch.

"Stop reading me, Cal."

"Yeah? No. Why? Because we said we wouldn't do that to each other? That was a long time ago, Gill, and a lot of things have changed since then, Don't you think," he said in a dangerously low voice, "that it's time that changed, too?" He shook his head. "Not much of a change, really, since you and I both know we never _really_ observed that little rule in the first place. Eh, Gill?"

Her resolve wavered then. He saw it. She knew he saw it, and that galled her. And right before his eyes and right behind hers, he saw her wall go back up.

"Actually, Cal, we didn't promise not to read each other, since you can't turn that off. What we promised was that we wouldn't talk about the things we can't help but see."

"Unless that person wants to," he finished for her. "Right, luv? Unless that person wants to." He was pushing, he knew. Only a bit, though. More of a nudge, really. This wasn't about him having his way. He was just trying to lead her to clue him in on how to approach. Cautious. Careful. Nudge. Nudge. Nudge.

"Unless that person wants to," she affirmed, nodding, her eyes never leaving his.

"And?" he pressed. Nudge. Nudge, nudge.

"And I don't want to."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I kind of forgot to mention at the outset that the title for this fic came from a Marillion song of the same title. This is why:**

_**"Everything I've been through, all I've seen and heard**_

_**I've spent so much of my life in the spiritual Third World**_

_**But you came and brought the rain here...**_

_**Something waiting to happen, something learning to fly**_

_**We can talk without talking, from inside to inside**_

_**I have waited to feel this for the whole of my life."**_

**I mean, is that Cal and Gillian or what?!**

**Off we go...**

* * *

Cal couldn't believe what he was hearing, Surely, he had misunderstood. He studied Gillian's face, her eyes, her posture. All of it screamed _BACK OFF! _She was closing herself off from him.

His instinct was, of course, to bang on the door til she opened back up. Failing that, he would fling himself against the door til he forced it open…

_On her terms._

Emily's words rang in his skull. Cal closed his eyes and sighed, dropping his head just a little. A concession. He didn't need to say it; she would read it in his body language. Still, he wanted her to hear it. After all, she was the expert in spoken word, and this was one of her terms. He opened his eyes and rolled them upward to look at her impassive face while keeping his own face downcast. This was a delicate dance. One must tread carefully. No more missteps.

"Alright, luv. I hear you." She would understand that he didn't mean he'd heard only her words. Cal moved his hands off her desk and stood upright. Gillian hadn't stirred, was watching him warily, daring him to challenge her on this and prove himself a bully.

"I'm gonna run out and grab some lunch. What d'ya fancy? Want me to bring you back anything?"

"No, thank you." Formal. Distanced.

"Okay. Probably gonna do an errand or three while I'm out then. Won't be gone more than a couple of hours at most."

No response.

Cal nodded slightly and turned away, moving toward the door. He paused at the threshold without turning back and added, "I'll be on my cell…_if you need me_."

* * *

Bone-weary, that's how Gillian felt as her office door clicked softly closed behind Cal. Bone-weary and completely at odds with herself. Part of her – the wounded, petulant little girl part – knew she was playing mind games with her partner. And it felt right because he always played those games with her, so it was only fair. Why shouldn't she turn the tables on him once in a while?

Another part – the coldly rational psychologist part – told her that games like this were beneath her and not beneficial and would resolve nothing. She should be honest with Cal, tell him that he hurt her and tell him – exactly – what she needed from him. Was it really fair to hold him accountable for not knowing how to proceed when even she _herself_ didn't know?

But another part of her – the woman who loved the man and wanted the happily-ever-after – her voice was loudest, and in the end it drowned out the other two. Because what _she_ wanted was rooted, ran deeper than spite and payback and the mechanics of resolution. Hers was a deep-seated _need_ to be loved and wanted and, most of all, to be the only thing Cal would ever need again. She wanted to be _everything_ to him. She wanted to hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes and read it on his face, in every movement of every muscle in his body. She needed him to tell her that she was his whole world and always had been and always would be. And she wanted _him_ to want the world to know it.

And maybe that was selfish, but she was so damn tired of putting everyone else's needs and wants and ambitions before her own.

* * *

Loker sat at the control panel with Foster and Lightman side-by-side behind him. The three of them watched Ria working on a suspect in the Cube. She was doing a remarkable job, single-handedly pulling off a good-cop-bad-cop routine that had the suspect completely off balance and impressed the hell out of Foster and Lightman.

"Incredible," Loker mused aloud, watching Torres with obvious fascination. "She's got all of Foster's tact and beguilement with all the trademark Lightman aggression and intimidation. She's like some sort of weird hybrid of you two or a science experiment. Like she got blasted with some Gamma rays. Like The Hulk. It's terrifying. And kinda hot."

"Ow!" cried Loker as Cal whacked him upside the head,

"Focus," Cal ordered, never taking his eyes from the scene unfolding in the Cube.

"That's workplace violence," Loker mumbled under his breath.

"File a grievance," Cal suggested blandly. "But for now, shut up and stop being a distraction."

"She's lulled him into a false sense of security, made him think she's on his side; and now she's going in for the kill," breathed Foster, concentrating on Ria and the suspect. "She really has come a long way from baggage screener."

"Miles to go yet," Cal responded, "but she's learning."

Gillian spared a sidelong glance at Cal. For the remainder of yesterday and all day today until they entered the lab, Cal had respected her request for space. Sort of. He hadn't pressed her to discuss their 'elevator moment' and had kept his distance physically, as well. His eyes had lingered on her a bit longer than normal – just the space of a couple deep breaths, really – when he stopped in her doorway to say goodbye yesterday. She felt her heart flutter when he had done that, half afraid he would say something and half afraid he wouldn't. He hadn't. As he left, she released a shaky breath she hadn't known she was holding and stared at the empty doorway until the echo of his footsteps in the hallway faded.

* * *

This morning, he texted her that he was running late and emailed her when he arrived just under an hour later.

_In my office now, if you need me, _it had read. _P.S. Something for you in the fridge. For after lunch._

Gillian wrestled with an overwhelming curiosity for a solid half hour before heading to the break room at what she dearly hoped was a casual pace. She even stopped and made small talk with Anna for a couple of minutes to make a good show of just how not-interested she was in what awaited her in the fridge.

What awaited her was a small cardboard box the colour of Pepto-Bismol. There was a post-it stuck to the top with _FOSTER_ written on it in Cal's blocky printing. Peeking out from underneath the post-it was just the very ending of a name. She didn't need to see anything more than the signature "o" with horns and a tail to know the box came from her favourite bakery – Sweet Diablo. The thought that Cal must _really_ be trying to make amends was followed quickly by the realization that she was sure – _absolutely sure_ – she had never mentioned that bakery by name. It wasn't as though that was something that would just come up in everyday conversation. She _may _have brought something from there with her to the office on occasion, but it wasn't like she walked down the hall waving the box around or wore Sweet Diablo t-shirts. Just how closely had Cal been paying attention to her to have _known_ about that little place and how much she adored their confections? The thought caused her stomach to do that little fluttery thing it did the night he had kissed her…

No. She wouldn't let him do that. Wouldn't let him get in her head like that. She wasn't ready to let go of the hurt and anger yet. Not just yet.

She bit her bottom lip, willing herself not to smile. Her eyes fell back to the little box, sitting there and innocently promising it held some untold delight. Gillian cast a surreptitious glance behind her, making sure she was alone. She reached into the fridge and pulled out the box.

_Open it right here or in my office?_

_Here, and I might end up having to share with Ria or Eli…_

_Office, it is!_

Gillian entered her office clutching her prize in both hands and pushed the door closed behind her with her foot.

She sat at her desk, placed the box in front of her and opened it.

Inside was a double-sized slice of the most decadent dark chocolate layer cake known to mankind. Gillian knew this to be incontrovertible fact, and she knew it firsthand. It was multi-layered, crème-filled, thickly frosted chocolate sex. Orgasmic.

But the cake wasn't even the best part of this surprise.

And it wasn't that Cal had somehow _known_ where to go to get it and had gone well out of his way to do so, though that really was impressive.

The best part of this surprise was the little white "flag" stuck into the top of the cake. Cal had scotch taped one of his business cards to a coffee stirrer, and on the blank side of the card he had written only two words of query:

_Piece offering?_

Below those words was an attempt at a smilie face with ridiculously exaggerated eyebrows and a wide grin showing teeth; and rather than smiley, it looked vaguely constipated.

Gillian was unable to repress the smile that spread across her face. She rolled her eyes at Cal's atrocious pun and psychotic smilie, but the thoughtfulness – the _amount of thought_ that he must've put into this gesture – caused a warm glow in her chest. She huffed a little laugh through her nose, closed her eyes and shook her head in amusement. After all these years, he could still surprise her with an unanticipated sweetness of spirit. For all his rough edges and crusty exterior, he really was soft in the middle.

And that soft spot – the space deep inside him that no one ever saw and that was reserved only for Gill, like her own designated parking space in his soul, complete with name placard and the works – that soft spot got even softer as he watched her lift her eyes from his ganache-covered olive branch, look right at the security camera again and mouth the words "Thank you, Cal," punctuated by a beatific smile. A smile she only ever smiled for Cal.

_Their smile._

Cal knew he wasn't _quite_ forgiven just yet, but the first planks of the bridge were now in place. It was a start.

* * *

Gillian licked the last of the cake crumbs and frosting from her fork as her email chimed, notifying her of a new message. She wiped her mouth with a tissue, threw it and the fork inside the box and dropped the lot into the bin. All except the truce "flag"; that, she kept. After licking the frosting off the end of it, naturally. Pack rat, indeed.

She opened the email (from Cal, of course), which was only three words:

_Are we ok?_

She tapped her fingers against the keyboard and clicked SEND.

_[I'll see your three words, and I'll raise you one.]_

Cal opened Gillian's reply and smile in relief.

_We're getting there, Cal._

* * *

Side-by-side behind Loker, Cal and Gillian watched Ria work her magic on their prime suspect. While Cal had respected Gillian's request for space before the cake, their truce had signaled to him that it might be okay to shrink the space somewhat. And so they stood outside the Cube; and he watched and she listened, and neither one seemed to think twice about what it meant that Cal stood with his upper left arm pressed against her upper right arm. The contact felt good, and it felt natural. And things were always safer when approached from the side.

They were getting there.

* * *

**A/N: There is truly a high-end bakery in DC called Sweet Diablo, complete with horns-and-tail "o". When it comes to cake, we don't screw around with made up stuff. Cake is serious business.**


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N:_**

**_1) Please, don't shoot me._**

**_2) Sorry so short. I had more, but it was crap so I cut it._**

**_3) Things often get worse before they get better._**

**_4) I often have no idea what I am doing._**

**_5) I still don't own LtM nor the characters. More's the pity._**

* * *

Cal looked up from his computer when someone tapped on his doorframe. He made no attempt to suppress the hopeful smile that sprang to his lips and flowed up to his eyes at the sight of Gillian standing there. It was the first time in more than a week that she had come to his office since _that_ evening. They'd called a truce of sorts, but the peace was an uneasy one. There remained an unspoken tension between them, hovering in the air and rumbling like a low-hanging thundercloud while the two of them carried on pretending that a storm wasn't looming on the horizon. Cal was trying – really trying – to give Gillian space and let her call the shots and dictate the timing. Patience was not one of this few virtues, but confrontation was one of his many, many vices. He itched to confront her on her avoidance. He was fighting it, but it was a wire in the blood.

"Hello, luv. Need me?" _Damn,_ Cal silently cursed his word choice as Gillian flushed and looked away awkwardly. "For a case," he added lamely. _Oh, yes, Cal; that was an improvement,_ he scolded himself. "Or anything." _Cor!_ His mouth had a mind of its own. _Stop making sounds!_ he ordered it.

Gillian cleared her throat and stepped through the doorway. Something was clearly bothering her, something beyond the obvious. She approached his desk and seated herself in one of the chairs arranged to face it. Cal noticed that she still hadn't looked at him again. She placed a file folder in her lap and folder her hands on top of it. A pained expression flitted across her face before she reined it in with careful control. She took a deep breath and looked up.

"We need to talk," she stated without preamble.

_Finally, _thought Cal. "I couldn't agree more, luv."

Gillian blinked once, casting her eyes downward again then looking back at him. "About our finances, Cal."

_Damn and blast._

"Gill…" he began. She didn't let him continue.

"Cal, we've barely made payroll for the past three months, and that's only been possible with you and me taking drastically reduced salaries. At this pace, our business will be completely unsustainable by the middle of next quarter."

Cal closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. He'd seen the business forecast their accountant sent over the previous week. He knew things were bleak, but he had allowed himself to mentally sideline the issue in favour of stewing over his personal situation with Gillian.

"Look, Foster," he said tiredly, "I know we're in a bit of a dry spell caseload-wise, yeah? But it'll pick up."

"Will it, Cal?" Gillian shrugged. "The truth of the matter is that ever since we cut ties with the FBI and lost the contract with the DCPD, the cases have slowed to a trickle. We can't keep on like this," she concluded, meeting his eyes for the first time since she walked in,

"You're absolutely right about that. We _can't_ keep on like this," Cal replied. The alternate implication dripped from his words like water from an oversaturated sponge. The air in the room thickened as they stared at one another, each daring the other to strike next. As the silence stretched out, Cal relented with a resigned sigh and flung himself back against his chair.

"Foster," he began and then changed his mind. "_Gillian_. I'm working on it, darling. Our financial straits have not escaped my notice, and I've been out beating the streets, making connections, putting out feelers. It'll come round." Cal hated the uncertainty he heard in his own voice. Gillian would hear it, as well. He hated that even more.

Gillian hesitated briefly then raised the folder that lay in her lap. "So have I." She leaned forward and laid the folder in front of Cal but didn't remove her hand from it. Steeling herself, she met his eyes again…and Cal didn't like what he saw there. Not one bit. Apology. What had she done?

"I did this for the greater good, Cal. Please keep that in mind. I want you to give this serious consideration."

Cal eyed her with suspicion as she moved her hand away, folding them in her lap once more. She shifted uncomfortably in the seat and crossed her legs in the other direction. She was no longer meeting his gaze. He watched her a moment more, noting the whitening around the knuckles of her delicate hands and the slight tremble in her bearing. _This cannot be good._

Cal opened the folder, reaching for his glasses. Settling them on his nose, he began to scan the folder's contents.

She noticed the stiffening of his posture first, followed by the draining of colour from his face, followed by the flexing of his jaw as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. She watched warily as his eyes skated further down the page, lips drawn into a tight, flat line. His chest rose and fell with jerky, rapid respiration. It was building, building. Cal was about to blow.

With exaggerated slowness, Cal closed the folder but did not raise his head. He could feel it bubbling up inside him, threatening to boil over. His pulse pounded in his face and his body shook as he struggled to push it down, to hold back the utter, naked rage that was closing its clammy hand around his throat and choking out every last shred of restraint and reason in him. Cal clenched his teeth hard and rolled his eyes up, fixing Gillian with a glare that – if looks could kill – would have rendered this room an abattoir.

"It makes good business sense, Cal. You know it does," she said, jumping instantly on the defensive.

Cal didn't trust himself to speak. If he unclenched his teeth and opened his mouth, nothing good would come of it. Words cannot be unsaid. So he sat there, seething. His mind refused to function properly, to think rationally. Forming coherent thoughts seemed beyond him, having reasonable discussion wholly out of the question. Cal felt the sickening sheen of a cold sweat paint itself across his forehead. And still he sat in mute, impotent fury. Only one thing could push him into such a state: a sense of betrayal.

Gillian opened her mouth to speak again, but Cal's voice finally broke the silence.

"Get. Out."

"Cal. This company is as much mine as yours! I've put just as much into this-"

"Foster." Her name fell frozen from his lips. "Stand up and walk out. Now. Before I say something we will _both_ regret. Cos I warn you: my blood is well up, and my judgment is well down." His jaw snapped closed, biting back the words that wanted to launch themselves like missiles in her direction.

Gillian's spine stiffened but something in his tone warned her not to push the issue. She stood primly and smoothed her skirt. Cal had not moved, his upturned eyes still staring daggers through her and the upper left corner of his lip twitching in a barely-restrained sneer. Gillian turned away from him with as much aplomb as she could muster and walked to the door. She turned and paused before stepping through. "I'll be in my office when you're ready to discuss this." She closed the door behind her.

She was only a few steps away when the widened eyes of their employees snapped to her, gauging her reaction to the sound of a loud crash as something shattered against the door through which she had just come. She jerked to a halt, momentarily stunned. She met no one's questioning glances as she continued to her office and quietly closed the door.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: I struggled with this chapter. I feel like it may have gone a bit "off" in spots. Time will tell. Fair warning: Cal was steaming mad at the end of the last chapter, so there's a good bit of F-bombery to start off. Sorry about that. He's volatile, that Lightman.**_

**_Thanks, all, for the continued reviews. I'm currently unable to reply directly since the site is doing weird things to private replies and removing random words. So just know that I truly appreciate all your thoughtful feedback! It's what keeps me writing._**

**_Finally, I apologize for the ridiculous length of this chapter. I think it's my longest, ever. I couldn't seem to find an appropriate stopping point._**

**_Onwards and upwards!_**

* * *

_Gillian's spine stiffened but something in his tone warned her not to push the issue. She stood primly and smoothed her skirt. Cal had not moved, his upturned eyes still staring daggers through her and the upper left corner of his lip twitching in a barely-restrained sneer. Gillian turned away from him with as much aplomb as she could muster and walked to the door. She turned and paused before stepping through. "I'll be in my office when you're ready to discuss this." She closed the door behind her._

_She was only a few steps away when the widened eyes of their employees snapped to her, gauging her reaction to the sound of a loud crash as something shattered against the door through which she had just come. She jerked to a halt, momentarily stunned. She met no one's questioning glances as she continued to her office and quietly closed the door._

* * *

It had scarcely closed when Cal burst through Gillian's door, practically tearing it from the hinges and slamming it forcefully.

Gillian spun to face him, and Cal barreled right up to her, stepping toe-to-toe.

"Jack Rader?" Cal erupted. "Jack fucking Rader?! Bloody hell! Please tell me this is some sort of sick fucking joke! Tell me it's a joke and then explain it to me, because I am failing to see the fucking humour in it, Gillian!" Cal's eyes were wide and wild with disbelief.

Reflexively, Gillian lifted her hand to Cal's chest to create a buffer between them and to calm him. But rather than calm, the motion only fanned the flames because it seemed the only time she touched him these days was to push him away. Days, months, _years_ of frustration and thwarted desire collided in a volatile mix.

Cal wasn't a tall man, but when he pulled himself up to full height and leaned toward her suddenly, he seemed larger than life. And Gillian flinched, snatching her hand away as though scorched.

Instantly, Cal deflated like someone had poked a hole in him and let all the air out. He looked at Gillian, horrified because she had flinched away from him. In _fear._ As though she thought he would _strike_ her.

She eyed him warily as he stepped forward, pursuing her retreat. He gave her no chance to protest as he encircled her with his arms, gently pulling her close and pressing his face into her hair. She was rigid in his embrace, and that gutted him. Remorse was not something Cal felt often, but he felt it acutely in that moment, a thing that left him feeling raw and weak and utterly unmanned. Cautiously, he tightened his hold on her briefly before backing off just enough to lift one hand to cup her face and lovingly stroke his thumb across her cheekbone.

Without a hint of reservation, he dropped his mask completely and allowed her to see it all: remorse, sorrow, apology. Seconds turned to minutes, and still he continued to bare his deepest emotions to her, desperately hoping that actions would speak far louder than any words he might muster. At length, he felt her relax slightly against him as comprehension dawned in her eyes. Along with comprehension, he could read the incredulity with which she now regarded him. He wondered what surprised her: that he regretted his angry outburst or that he let her see the regret. Even now, he kept himself fully opened to her. It petrified him because he was sure he'd never been _this_ exposed for _this_ long. Not with anyone, ever. Yet as frightening as it was, it felt _right_ to give himself to Gillian in this way. She deserved this, to see him unguarded and to feel the level of trust he placed in her. She was the only person who had ever been this far. No one else…not Zoë…not even Emily...only Gillian. She was the _only _person who had ever been this far; she was the only one he'd ever wanted this far. And her let her see that, too.

Pulling her ever closer, he rested his forehead tenderly against hers. They stood like that, his arms around her, just breathing one another in and allowing themselves to feel.

Gillian was too stunned to react. Her hands hung limply at her sides. Cal's wordless apology and total openness were unexpected acts of contrition, and she didn't quite know how to respond. As frightening as it had to be for Cal to drop his guard like that, it was oddly frightening for Gillian to be so suddenly invited inside. It felt at once alien and familiar, new and well-worn. It was the strangest dichotomy…

Cal's quiet voice nudged into her sluggish thoughts.

"I would _never_ hurt you, Gillian. I would _never_ lay a hand on you in anger. I'd never touch you like that. You've got to believe that. I am so sorry I let my anger get so out of control enough to have ever caused you to think otherwise."

Her leaden hands twitched and finally moved to rest on Cal's shoulders. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small and frail as she said, "I know. I know you'd never do that. I- I don't even know why I responded like that."

"Really?" he challenged gently, "Because that sort of response tends to be conditioned, you know?" Cal kept hold of her with one arm, reaching with the other to place his hand atop one of hers perched on his shoulder. "What happened to you, luv? What happened…in your past…to condition you? Eh?"

Gillian didn't respond. That was a door she'd spent years closing, and she wasn't prepared to open it right now. Instead, she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze to let him know she appreciated his concern but that this was one of those things they would see but not talk about. Not today and maybe not ever. She extricated herself from him and moved to lean against her desk with a tired sigh.

"Cal, about the proposal—" She paused, knowing this was a discussion they needed to have but not knowing how to steer it.

Cal regarded her with a carefully benign expression, shaking his head. "It's out of the question, Gill. Look, I know business is bad and the finances are worse, and I respect that you're trying to improve our position. I will do virtually _anything_ else: I'll mortgage my home, I'll take on those cheating spouse cases I hate so much, I'll sell my organs on the black market. But what you're asking, I won't do. I will not. You don't know the history, Gill, so you really don't understand what you're asking me—how untenable it is."

"Then help me understand, Cal," Gillian pleaded. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she saw it. His unspoken response. She saw it in his posture, in his face. But most of all, she read it in his eyes – loud and clear. This was _His Issue._ This was his Thing-We-See-But-Won't-Talk-About. If she expected him to respect her secrets, she could offer him no less. She blinked slowly and granted him a conciliatory nod. "No, you're right. You're right." She gave her head a tight, little shake and looked upward. "That was a drastic suggestion, a merger. It was desperate thinking. I— underestimated the animosity between the two of you, especially when he seemed so receptive to the idea…and…I'll keep looking. I'll find another way to deal with this. And I'll contact Rader, let him know the proposal is off the table." She hesitated then looked at Cal once more. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I should never have gone behind your back, even if my intentions were good. It was hypocritical of me – after scolding you for behaving like this company is only _yours_ - to go and do essentially the same thing."

Cal let her squirm for a minute before letting his expression relax. "Well, what can I say? You've learned from the best, luv." He smiled in that disarming way of his, that way that always put him right back in Gillian's good graces whether she wanted him there or not. She reluctantly smiled back at him; she couldn't help it. Ugh, he was infuriating, but he was so damn charming. The worst part was that he _knew_ it.

Smirking knowingly, Cal angled his body back toward the door and pointed over his shoulder. "I should really get back to my office. Got a bit of a- 'situation' –in there. Know what I mean?" A baffled expression overtook his face and he looked around as though he'd never been there before. Looking back at Gillian with his jaw hanging slack, he asked simply, "D'ya know where we keep the-" He gestured his hand in a circular motion. "…the –what ya call it? – the broom? And that?" Then he turned and wandered out of her office, leaving the door open behind him and leaving Gillian looking after him and wondering if he really oughtn't to be medicated for his ADD. Among other things.

* * *

"Clear your calendar for the evening, darling. We've got plans." Cal rolled himself into one of Gillian's chairs and became one with it, sliding awkwardly low and ending gap-legged.

"Cal, as flattering an offer as that is," Gillian began with light sarcasm. Cal cut her off, screwing up his face and waving his hands. "No, no, no. Nothing like that. Business, Foster. Tsk, where's your head? No, look. I've got us an appointment with a very important potential client."

"Potential client?" Gillian parroted in query.

"_Very_ important," Cal affirmed. "Dinner meeting. Very upscale, so I'm led to believe. We're to be at José Andrés minibar at 8 p.m., dressed to the nines…which I can only assume means my well-worn Doc Martens are a no-go?" Gillian's jaw dropped, and her eyes had gone big as saucers. "Oh. Right then. minibar?"

"That's…they take reservations a month in advance and book out in minutes. How—"

Cal shrugged indifferently. "I just follow orders, luv. minibar. 8 p.m. Dress to kill. Alright? And I'm sure it won't go amiss if you show a bit of skin, Foster. Know what I mean?" He waggled his brows at her, tilting his head far sideways and making a show of leering at her. "Leg…and that." He gifted her with a lecherous grin.

Gillian dismissed him with a roll of her eyes and a small, indulgent half-smile.

Cal popped up from the chair as though launched and pointed at her. "_Don't_ be late." And with that, he darted from the room.

* * *

Always punctual, Gillian handed her keys to the valet at precisely 7:55 p.m. She had always wanted to try the 26 course molecular gastronomy experience, but it was just too hard to get a reservation and at over $250 per person was difficult to justify even as a splurge. This potential client, whoever it was, must have clout and deep pockets – two things that could certainly benefit The Lightman Group.

Gillian entered a room of clean, white lines and simple elegance. "Dr. Foster?" the host addressed her. "Allow me, please, to show you to your seat. Your dinner companion is already waiting."

Clean, white lines…simple elegance…and Cal Lightman. Now there was an unexpected juxtaposition, and she found herself enjoying the contrast. He looked amazing, as he always did when he bothered to dress up. He had achieved an oddly formally casual look in a smartly tailored, dark suit and a crisp, white button-up shirt with the top button undone almost as an afterthought. He looked…edible.

Clean, white lines…simple elegance…and Gillian Foster. Now there was a sight to behold. She looked amazing, as she always did every day without even trying, it seemed. Tonight, she wore a royal blue sheath dress so snug that it appeared painted on. But rather than looking cheap or tacky, Gillian filled the dress out in a way that would make poets weep. It caused the high-toned surroundings to appear shabby in her wake. She took Cal's breath away. He stood and stared. He knew he was staring, and he just couldn't be bothered to care. She looked…delicious.

He was rewarded with a tiny, gratified but bashful smile on her beautiful lips and a pinking of her cheeks that caused a hitch in his breathing as he responded with a rakish grin and stepped forward to take her hands in his and plant a small kiss of greeting that only just missed the corner of her mouth.

"You scrub up well, Foster," he quipped in a husky voice that sounded far steadier than he felt.

"Thanks. You, too." She sat in the seat he held out for her and looked around. "Where's our host?"

Cal seated himself beside her at the L-shaped bar. "This is a nice place, eh? Bit pretentious, maybe, but seems nice," he said as though she hadn't spoken. He seemed fidgety and distracted – which was his default setting, really, but he seemed to have amped up the levels another notch.

"Cal?" Gillian placed a hand atop one of his to still it and to recall his focus. "Our host? The potential client?"

Cal looked at her briefly as if she'd addressed him in Esperanto then seemed to absorb the meaning of the words enough to form a reply. "What? Oh. No. There isn't one. I lied," he announced easily.

Gillian tilted her head and opened her mouth to speak but Cal kept going. "No, I lied…about that. Yeah. No client. Only me. Well, I figured I owed you a nice one after…y'know…all the- whoop-de-do…and such. Figured if I just tried to play it straight, though, you'd dodge me. Cos you're _shifty_ like that, you are. 'Specially these days. Eh?" He raised his brows in mild challenge. "Thought so," he said, nodding when Gillian's only response was silence. Cal sighed forcefully and leaned in close. Close enough that her perfume floated around him in the most intoxicating way. Close enough that he could feel rather than simply hear the change in her breathing that his sudden proximity evoked. Close enough to see a bit less blue and a bit more black in the eyes that regarded him from scant inches away. And close enough that he had to remind himself that this was a very public place while the things he thought to do were driven by very private passions. "Wasn't it you," he breathed, "what said that it won't go away just because I don't address it?"

"May I present your first course," the server announced, placing an artful plate in front of each of them. Cal backed off from Gillian. "You may," he responded to their server. "Hang on. What's this tangle on my plate?"

"Tumbleweed of beet, sir. Enjoy." And with that, he was gone.

Cal turned toward Gillian. "Is he serious? Am I meant to eat that? Looks like something used to scour the stainless."

"Cal," said Gillian, laughing, "it's the _experience_. Food isn't just about consuming. It's a feast for the senses."

"Alright then," Cal replied, his expression clearly stating he was less than convinced. He watched Gillian eat hers so he'd know how to go at it without looking a fool, then tucked in. It was surprisingly tasty, but he was disappointed how quickly it was gone. "I hope there's a lot more than that," he said.

"Twenty-six courses, Cal. They do twenty-six courses." Her eyes twinkled with anticipation, and she gave her hands a tiny, gleeful series of claps.

"You're weird," he said, a smile toying at the edges of his lips.

"I'm a _foodie_," she responded with mock severity.

"You're a nutter. Certifiable. Good job you're gorgeous."

Cal was equally unimpressed with the next few courses, but his tact was well and truly put to the test when the server placed a single plate between the two of them. It held one scallop. Cal stared at the plate then looked at the server. Back to the plate, server.

"Herbert," he whispered conspiratorially, beckoning with one finger. "Now, I'm a man of science, right? Maths…that has never been my strong suit. But-" Cal held up one finger then pointed to the scallop. "There's just one of this."

"Yes, sir," said Herbert, smiling indulgently.

Cal gestured back and forth several times between himself and Gillian. "There's two of us, Herbert. One of that. Two of us." Cal looked at the server expectantly.

Herbert maintained his pleasant demeanor as he calmly explained, "This is a shared course, sir."

"A shared course?"

"A shared course."

"One scallop? For two full-grown adults?"

"It's a very large scallop, sir."

"No, yeah, I can see it's a large scallop…Herbert-"

Gillian broke in, laughing. "It looks wonderful. Thank you." Herbert gave her a gracious nod and winsome smile and withdrew. Still laughing, Gillian laid a hand on Cal's arm. "I mean, really," Cal muttered as he divided the scallop, giving Gillian the larger portion and taking a forkful for himself. "Oh! Oh, that's quite good." He looked over at Gillian as she took a bite. "I could easily eat several of these."

The next course arrived before Cal could grouse much more about the scallop but just in time for him to start on the new one.

"Herbert. There's washing up liquid on my food."

"Sir?"

"Washing up liquid, Herbert. Soap. Bubbles. This—foamy stuff—on the fish…" Cal looked at the plate in front of him with obvious distaste.

"That's meant to be there, sir. It's part of the dish."

"Why? Was the fish rabid or something?"

"It's Parmesan foam, sir. For dramatic effect." Again, Herbert smiled graciously and faded into the background.

Cal turned once more to Gillian who was trying to stifle a laugh with a hand to her mouth. "Dramatic food? I mean, is that really necessary? We need dramatic food? What happened to eating because one is hungry, I ask you? Simple, honest, unassuming food."

Gillian's hand came to rest casually on Cal's thigh. She seemed to think nothing of it at all, but it shot a thick bolt of electricity arcing up Cal's leg and into his groin and stomach, stirring the butterflies in there to begin playing ping-pong with those bits of scallop.

"Cal, I told you: it's about more than the food itself. It's the experience. It's supposed to be- _sensual, evocative._ How does it make you _feel_?" She leaned in a bit, just a bit. Just enough that the pressure of her hand on his thigh increased a miniscule amount. Not enough so you'd notice. But he noticed. When he didn't answer, Gillian repeated herself. "How does it make you feel—Cal?"

Cal breathed in. Breathed her scent mingled with the smells of the various foods.

"I feel- I feel-"

He swallowed hard.

"I feel-"

"Yes?"

"Gillian, I feel—hungry."

"Ugh! You're impossible!" Gillian said, giving him a playful shove.

Cal grinned back at her. "Okay, look, if I behave for the rest of the—experience—can we go for like, a burger or something after?"

Gillian looked at him levelly and then dropped her gaze, the playfulness fading from her like the sun being obscured by passing clouds. She looked back up and smiled again, but Cal could see it was forced. He didn't understand the abrupt shift in her mood at all. "I think maybe at the end, we'd—better call it a night," she said softly.

Cal nodded as if he agreed though inside, he wanted to shout and demand they deal with this mess in their relationship. It was killing him that he just couldn't find the way to set things right between them. He would feel like they were moving forward, like they were _almost_ there, and then she would do this shit. Just throw the old barriers right back into place. They would never be rid of the bloody barriers.

"Yeah, probably so, darlin'. Whatever you want. You're the boss."

_On her terms _was going to be the death of him.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: I realize it has been nearly a month since I posted a chapter. I apologize for the long hiatus. I started a class at work, and it has been sucking up all my creativity. Also, I suspect my Muse snuck away on holiday with solveariddle without asking me first, so I was left wholly without inspiration for a while. **_

_**I hope you haven't all given up and wandered off. In case you've not, here's the next chapter. Not quite what I originally had in mind, but one does not argue with the Muse. In vino veritas, she insists. In vino veritas, it shall be.**_

_**Please forgive any typos/grammatical errors/blatant stupidity. It is 3 a.m. I have been awake since 5:30 a.m. yesterday. This is how much I love you people and want to give you a story :)**_

* * *

He slipped his arm around her shoulders as they abandoned the warmth of the restaurant for the cool night air, and she allowed him that much. It had been, after all, a very nice dinner, and they had a good time together. Too good, in fact. Their easy banter had given way naturally to their easy physicality; she was more surprised than he had been to find her hand resting on his thigh. Rather high up on his thigh, she realized with new discomfort. The thought warmed her cheeks and sent a little silver shiver of desire wending its way up her spine.

Thinking her chilled, Cal tightened his arm around her in response. She let herself drift just a little closer to settle a bit more snug against his pleasantly warm side. She didn't really remember doing it, but she slowly became aware that she had tipped her head over onto his shoulder as they took their time walking to their cars. Actually, now that she thought about it, they had walked in the exact opposite direction from the valet port, and she hadn't even noticed until now. It hadn't even registered as a conscious thought. What did that say? She wasn't sure she wanted to pull at that particular thread just now. And anyway, it was already done and her head was sort of swimming with very good wine and heavy on Cal's shoulder which – by the way, felt awfully, awfully _good_ and smelled even _better_ than it felt and she realized she was thinking in a pretty incoherent manner and…

She closed her eyes and let her arm slide around Cal's back. Just, you know, for support. Just to steady herself, right? It didn't need to _mean_ anything. It didn't. It _didn't_ mean anything. How much wine did she have with dinner anyway? It hadn't seemed like that much when she was drinking it. But now that she was aware of how unaware she felt… HA! Couldn't be the wine, then. If it were, she wouldn't be _able_ to be aware that she wasn't aware. Or…something. What was _wrong_ with her?!

_Cal_.

_Cal_ was wrong with her. _Damn him_. Gillian was fairly certain he possessed some form of mind control powers. She had long suspected it. How many times would she suddenly – for no explicable reason – feel compelled to go to Cal's office? So up she'd get and dutifully in she'd trot only to be met with a look that intimated that he'd been expecting her. It was that smirk that was there-but-wasn't, like seeing a photo in negative. He'd let her see the smirk in his eyes though it never quite played out on his lips all the way.

_Oh…those lips._ She could fill an entire bookcase with romance novels about Cal's lips alone.

Hang on… She really should _not_ be following this line of thought. It couldn't end well. Would only lead to trouble. That was Cal's middle name. Trouble. Trouble with a capital T. Only…

Wouldn't it be kind of nice to just- maybe— stir up a little trouble with him? That sounded nice. Very nice. Stir. Stirring. Rumbling.

What was that…rumbling? Low and kind of soft and— Yeah, rumbly?

Cal! He was talking. _Shit_! She had absolutely _no_ clue what he had just said. If she admitted that, he would want to know where her head had been, and she very much did not want to make that confession right now, so—Just—Just—

Okay, kind of crazy and kind of risky but just go along with him. Probably the less risky choice in the end. Right?

Probably.

"So, whaddya think, luv?" Cal paused in conversation, clearly awaiting her response.

"Mmm," Gillian hummed, hoping her non-committal utterance was at least semi-fitting to whatever it was he had just asked.

"Fantastic. So that's settled, then." He stopped walking and moved apart from her just enough so he could look at her face. Gillian hated the feeling of the cold air rushing to fill the void the small gesture made between them. "I honestly thought you'd kick up more of a fuss, make me work a little harder for that."

_Uh-oh_, thought Gillian. _What the hell did I just step into_? "Why would you think that?" is what she calmly asked, as though the thought should have never crossed his mind.

Cal seemed confused and not a little distressed. "Well, darlin', I mean, you _did_ seem a bit _off_ back there at the restaurant, yeah? When you suggested we call it a night and went all serious on me. Figured I'd upset you. Again. As I do." He shrugged and shuffled his feet on the concrete, shoving his hands into his pockets then immediately taking them back out again and putting his arm back around her. They started walking and Cal kept rambling. Gillian let him. "But…no." He glanced over in her direction. "We're good? So then. Tomorrow night, yeah?" He tilted his head sideways and grinned at her as they arrived at the valet port and surrendered their claim tickets.

"Tomorrow night?" she echoed faintly. It sounded sort of like a question and sort of like she wasn't sure she had actually spoken the correct words in the correct language.

"Yeah. Seven good for you?"

"Seven? No, yeah, seven's—uh, seven's great."

"Are you feeling alright, luv?"

"What? Oh, yes, um, fine. Tired, I guess." She shook her head and smiled, swallowing down the rising panic that felt awfully familiar, awfully like when Cal had been toying with her in her office last week and got her all riled up and- Probably best to just stop following that line of though. Jump back to safe ground.

The valet arrived with Gillian's car first, and she looked at Cal. "So, just to be sure I've got it straight: tomorrow at seven, the plan is…" She faded off questioningly.

Cal narrowed his eyes. "You are tired, aren't you? My house, 7 o'clock." He held her door open while she climbed uneasily into her car. Then he leaned in for a quick kiss. It was chaste, but he went right for her lips which did nothing but further unnerve her. And because he was Cal Lightman and because he was insufferable and because he could play her like a tightly-strung fiddle, he grinned that Cheshire Cat grin of his, regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes and quipped, "Oh and Foster? Bring your appetite. I'll leave it to you which one." With that, he closed her door, accepted his keys from the valet and strolled casually toward his car.

* * *

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the smartest move, she decided as she pulled up in front of Cal's house just before 7 p.m. and put her car in park. No, probably not the smartest move at all. In fact, it was probably safe to say it was one of the stupidest things she'd done in recent memory. She looked at the clock in her dashboard glowing 6:57 at her. Ever punctual. She had a death-grip on her steering wheel, and her hands were clammy and shaking. That panic she was becoming all too familiar with lately was coiling in her stomach again with the wine she had drunk before leaving home. She thought a little wine might settle her nerves, calm her down a bit.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now she was concerned she may not have had enough. Or had too much. She really wasn't sure. About anything. She had to be careful not to drink too much. Whenever she did, she tended to get a little…hands-y. She thought back to that night on the balcony when a be-helmeted Cal found her full of his Glenfiddich. She thought of how close they had been as they'd held each other and swayed to the music under the starless night sky. She thought of how nothing had happened between them but how much she had wanted it to. She thought of how _good_ that night had been, how amazing Cal's body had felt against her, strong and steady and solid and sure. She thought of how his arms pressed her to him in the most tender and reassuring way while – in stark and delicious contrast – his hips pressed into hers in a way that was _not_ tender but was no less welcome and caused the most wonderful heat to pool low in her stomach as her own hips pressed back in urgent response—

In vino veritas? Yes, maybe the wine had not been a good idea. She was starting to feel warm. _Very_ warm, very relaxed, and very…uninhibited…

7:02. Oops, late.

* * *

She would have laughed.

When he opened the door wearing that ridiculous flowered apron he described as "fetching", holding a sauce-coated spoon in one hand and a glass of liquid courage in the other, his hair stuck out at odd angles as though a balloon had been rubbed vigorously on his head and his dark-rimmed glasses that fogged over when the cold outdoor air rushed into his over-warm kitchen, she really would have laughed. She would have, had he not managed to somehow look so damn sexy.

Maybe that was the wine talking.

He'd had a smart-ass remark all prepared. It started forming of its own accord the moment he saw her car pull up in front of his house (Yes, he _had_ been watching for it. And?) yet she still had not emerged from said car nor turned up at his door. Oh, it was a corker, this smart-ass remark. It was going to be hideously clever. He would open the door and say it as he helped her out of her coat. He would smirk, and she would roll her eyes at him and blush in that delightfully sexy Foster way of hers. The ice would be broken, the tone would be set, and all would be smooth sailing.

Except that things never seemed to play out in actuality quite like the movie in his head.

So when she knocked and he opened the door with that corker all locked and loaded and ready to aim and fire, what he had not anticipated was that look. The look that instantly disarmed him and took the ammo right out of his mouth. Because he had seen _that_ look in _those_ eyes before—months back now, on a night he still recalled with aching clarity (no exaggeration, that) A night that had been simultaneously wonderful and awful. On the balcony. At the office. Foster, three full sheets to the wind and the two of them testing the edges of intimacy in new ways. He wanted her; no question, he wanted her. And no question he was a complete bastard. But…well, maybe not _complete_, after all. Not when it came to _her_. Because it _was_ her. And she was quite drunk. Quite. And although she did seem to want him, too, he did not want it to be like that. Not their first time together. He couldn't bear the thought of her _ever_ looking at him with regret or shame. Thus, the "awful" part of the wonderful, because he had had to extricate himself (_reluctantly_) from the persistent arms (_very, very persistent_) of the gorgeous and willing (_exceedingly willing_) Gillian Foster that night. He drove her home, all the while fighting off her advances (_is it still fighting if it's half-hearted?_) and tucked her (_fully clothed_) into bed. Glass of water and bottle of paracetamol on the nightstand. Waste bin beside the bed. Not his first dance, after all. He'd gone home. Cold shower. Cold bed. Cold comfort. He had done the right thing. The right thing felt—not nearly as nice as the wrong thing would have.

All that rushed through his head within seconds as he stood at his kitchen door, dripping sauce from his spoon and looking at a drunk and smiling Gillian Foster. And it suddenly occurred to him that she was still standing outside and that he hadn't actually said anything at all since opening the door, much less anything blindingly clever. And then he noticed that she looked a bit like she wanted to laugh; he didn't really know what to do with that. So he opted for the opposite of clever: simplicity.

"Hello, gorgeous. Come in." He stepped aside and scrambled to put down the spoon and his drink as she entered the kitchen. He helped her out of her coat and hung it on the hooks behind the door. Then the words were out of his mouth before his brain had the chance to warn him against them. "Can I get you a drink?"

Her grin went slightly wicked as he studied her face. While there was no denying that she was fuzzy around the edges, her eyes were far clearer than he originally thought, now that he took a moment to look more closely. Less guarded, yes (_nice_) but this was a woman in control who knew exactly what she was doing (_very nice_). That thought alone shot a new jolt of nervous energy through him, and he jerked visibly as though touched by bare wires and propelled himself across the room.

"Food's just about ready," he said just to have something to say while he regained his composure.

"Wine would be lovely," Gillian purred. That's right. _Purred_. Bloody hell.

Cal turned from the stove, a slow smile forming. "Looks to me like maybe you already got a head start on that, eh?"

Gillian's only answer was to seat herself on one of the tall stools, lean onto the counter and raise her delicate brows with feigned innocence and a small shrug.

Cal obligingly poured a glass of wine for her, deciding just one glass wouldn't hurt. Her perfectly manicured nails grazed the sensitive skin along the outer edge of this palm as she accepted the proffered glass and lifted it toward him before lifting it to her pink lips.

"So what have you cooked up for us tonight?" she asked, and then added, "For dinner, I mean."

And heaven forgive him for not bothering to keep his inner bastard in check any longer, but honestly- How was he supposed to do that when she was sitting there looking all tasty and with _that_ expression on her face and _that_ look in her eye? I mean, he was just a man, after all. He had agreed to do things on her terms, and right now she was making her terms rather bloody clear, so who was he to argue? He had left it to her which appetite to bring, and she wasn't being terribly secretive as to which one she'd settled on, so…

Sod it.

"Jalfrezi curry. Or more specifically, chicken Jalfrezi curry. But I should probably warn you," he said, leaning on the counter facing her. "I make it hot."

Gillian met his gaze levelly without batting an eye and replied, "I like it hot."

Cal let his eyes roam. First her face…then the ivory column of her throat…tilting his head and homing in on the rapidly-fluttering pulse point there. He raised heavy-lidded eyes to hers. "No, I mean, _very_ hot, luv."

Her head slowly angled at a match to his, effectively baring her throat in wordless response. "And I said, I like..._hot_."

Cal reached across the island countertop, and Gillian held her breath. His shirt sleeves were rolled up a bit while he cooked, exposing some of his tattoos and she focused on how the ink moved as his muscles flexed under his skin. She felt his forearm brush against hers with an electric thrill as she exhaled shakily.

Then he picked up the wooden sauce spoon where it lay on the counter beside her, smiled winsomely and turned to the stovetop.

Gillian closed her eyes a moment in frustration but smiled. She opened them again and watched him. Even with his back to her, she could tell he was grinning. Grinning like an idiot. He was enjoying this. Truth be told, she was, too. And why not? Why shouldn't they? Maybe it was time. High time they just—just—let go and had a little fun. Or a lot. A lot of fun.

So she sat there and watched. Watched him move around his kitchen like some frenetic culinary bumblebee. It was oddly charming and endearing that he was cooking for her. Cooking. For her. Providing food. Providing a basic human need. For her. In his house. Voluntarily. And happily. He was humming! That was so freaking adorable that it made her want to pinch his cheeks and give him a balloon. Made her want to jump up off the stool and push him against the wall and do things to him that she would never consider doing in a kitchen (would never admit considering) without the help of delicious, delicious wine.

In vino veritas, indeed. Cheers!

So she watched him be adorable and charming and endearing, and she decided right then and there on that stool in his kitchen that Cal Lightman in his floral apron and dark-rimmed glasses cooking dinner for her was the sexiest thing she had ever seen.

* * *

_**Author's coda: next chapter is partially written; just have to fit the bits and pieces together. ooer!**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: I'm not an M sort of writer – not my forte – but call this "hard T" or "T+" I suppose, though there is some f-bombery. You have been warned. Also, it's kinda longish. I couldn't seem to find a good cutoff point. Sorry about the verbosity. **_

_**This might be the final chapter or there might be one other "wrap-up" kind of thing after this one. I'm undecided at this point. Just sayin'.**_

_**On we go…**_

* * *

The evening was going exceedingly well so far, and Cal was pleased. Yes, ok, Gillian had seen fit to get herself tipsy in order to face an evening alone with him, and on some level that was probably cause for concern. But he was choosing _not_ to focus on that particular little detail, thank-you-very-much. It wasn't as though he hadn't filled his own glass before she arrived. And it wasn't because he needed to be inebriated in order to enjoy a night with her, either. It was just—well, the nerves…they wanted with a bit of soothing was all. It was just to take the edge off. So maybe that's what Gill had done as well. Likely so. Trouble was, along with the edge also went sound judgment. Not that Cal's judgment was ever especially sound even in the most ideal of circumstances, but…

He had a point. What was it?

Right. Judgment. The soundness thereof. Or not.

And anyway, Gillian was merely _tipsy_, not drunk. Not like that wonderful, awful night. _That_ distinction bore focusing on.

He felt her eyes on him. And he'd be a liar if he said he didn't like the feeling. She was sitting back there checking him out while he finished pulling the meal together. She was checking him out, and he was pretending not to notice even though she wasn't being the slightest bit sly about it at all. No, she was being quite blunt. Rather like the way he often checked _her_ out, actually. She'd gone and turned the tables on him. Not that he was complaining. He found this take-charge Gillian quite…erotic. So much so, however, that "on her terms" was becoming a bit of a stretch for him; at some point, his resolve was bound to snap. Cal was a lot of things: cynic, smart-ass, bastard…one thing he was not, though, was a liar. And he knew absolutely full well that if she kept on at this pace – and if he kept pace with her (as he fully intended to do) – there was nothing on God's green earth that would be able to put the brakes on. Not this time. Because another thing he was not? Restrained.

Self-control: a virtue he possessed in only slightly less measure than patience.

Their relationship had always been odd, but it had worked for them. Mostly. It had mostly worked. But in Cal's more honest moments (he _wasn't_ a liar, but he could be an ostrich when the need arose) he had wanted more from their relationship, and he'd wanted it for a very, very long time. Patience. Not one of his favourite of the virtues, but he'd done his level best to have it. For _her_. It had been placid and slow-moving, their relationship. Placid and slow-moving. Lovely, if one was floating on a river. But he was beyond ready to hit the rapids. Patience, he had long held, was overrated. And God bless her, Gillian seemed to finally be getting up to speed on that. Not a moment too soon, either. Because he really thought that if they stayed the course much longer on this stop-start-stop continuum, he might very well die from inadequate blood supply to the brain. And wouldn't _that_ make a charming obituary?

_"Cal Lightman: loving father, business partner, entrepreneur; died as a result of losing a 10-year cockfight. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Gamblers Anonymous."_

"So, hot stuff," Gillian's voice broke into his thoughts, causing his grin to widen, "…for dinner. Have anything special planned for dessert?"

Cal turned to face her, leaning back casually with his elbows on the counter and matched her wicked grin with one of his own. "Dessert?" he asked. "You think you'll be wanting something sweet after…dinner?"

Her laugh sparkled through the room and if he wasn't already head over heels for the woman, that sound alone would've done for him.

She blinked at him adorably. "You know how much I like dessert, Cal. You must have _something_ planned. I just know you wouldn't want to lure me over here only to send me home unfulfilled."

Cal couldn't quite suppress the genuine smile – not from his lips and certainly not from his eyes – borne from the knowledge that Gillian was not only keeping pace; she was taking the lead. Well, well. Time for a bit of power play, then.

"We can't have that, now, can we? I wouldn't be able to sleep at night, knowing you left my house unsatisfied."

Cal stood from his reclined position and moved lazily around the island counter where Gillian sat. He moved with deliberate steadiness while his heavy, half-lidded stare never wavered from hers. He moved until he had invaded her space in that familiar way of his, and then he moved a breath closer. Still holding her gaze, he reached out with his right arm and picked something up from the countertop. Without looking away from her eyes, he dropped it onto her lap. His smile became impish while his eyes began to twinkle with mischief. Gillian glanced down at her lap then back to Cal.

"Okay, I'll bite. What's this?" she asked, smiling back at him.

"That," he said, voice dripping with seduction, "is dessert, luv." He licked his lips as if in anticipation.

Gillian raised one brow in question. "This? It's only a bunch of bananas, Cal. How is that dessert?"

Cal leaned in close. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice a low hum that vibrated all the way down to her toes when he said, "Well, I've never been one for desserts, but I've always wanted to try bananas _Foster_."

Gillian wasn't quite sure how he did it. How nothing but the hum of his voice and the whisper of his breath dancing over the sensitive skin behind her ear could cause her lashes to flutter and her eyes to roll back in her head. How he made a simple dessert sound so incredibly, deliciously dirty just by emphasizing her name in it. How the mere suggestion of the touch of his skin against hers could cause a tingle that started in her extremities then spread like wildfire along every nerve ending in her entire body until the warmth became a hot, hard weight in the center of her. His proximity always affected her. Things were a lot more – humid – whenever he was so close. Not that she minded. She liked it. That was why she never discouraged it, that perpetual invasion of her personal space. She wanted it. Secretly, she craved it…just like he was doing right now. He hadn't moved from that spot. She could still feel his breath, warm and just a little shallow and just a little ragged and just a perfect match to her own. She turned her face a bit – only a bit – toward him.

Before she could say anything, Cal spoke again. "Hold that thought, luv. I'm just gonna go slip into something more comfortable. Won't be a moment." He leaned into her smoothly and in one swift motion moved away and out of the room, leaving her to wonder what had just happened and what was yet to come.

She didn't have to wonder long.

The rooms beyond the kitchen were dark and quiet. The silence was the first casualty of the night.

It was soft at first, increasing gradually in volume until it was just perfect. Just like it had been the last time they'd listened to that CD. It was one of her favourites, and Cal knew it. He knew it, and that was why he owned a copy. He bought it because she loved it and because listening to it made him think of her. Hell, everything made him think of her.

When she heard it, she knew he was playing it for her and she had a pretty good idea why. The last time they'd danced to this, the night had ended in a way neither of them really wanted but both of them knew was the only way it could have ended well. She listened to the gentle strains of the songs she loved weaving their way through the rooms in Cal's house, through the space between her and him. And suddenly, she was all too aware that he _wasn't_ in her space, and he _should_ be. She wanted him there and needed him there now, and if he didn't get back there very soon – like right-this-minute soon – she was going to go looking for him. And she didn't care if that seemed desperate or needy because honestly? She was feeling desperate and needy. And it was Cal fucking Lightman, and he read people for a living so odds were high that he already knew it.

The other rooms were dark, so it wasn't difficult for her to notice the dim, small light. It wavered and jerked, dancing against the wall. Faint at first, then getting stronger and a bit larger. It seemed familiar and elicited, along with the music, the most surreal sense of déjà vu…

Cal rounded the corner dressed exactly the same as when he left the room but with a few key differences. The apron and the glasses were gone. He was wearing on his face possibly THE most smolderingly sultry expression she had ever seen. And he was wearing…

Oh, heaven help her.

He was wearing the miner hat.

"Seem to recall you saying something about liking this look, yeah?"

Gillian released a shuddering breath and blinked slowly. "Ohhh, yeah."

Cal walked back to the stove and looked over his shoulder. "Why don't you come over here for a taste and tell me if you think it's ready?"

Gillian kicked off her heels and padded barefoot over to Cal. She stepped in close, as close as he always did and then closer still so that she almost brushed against him. Almost. It made her ache to be so close and not touch him. She looked up. He wasn't much taller than her but without her heels on, the difference was pleasant. He stirred then lifted the spoon to his lips and blew to cool it. She watched his every move. Watched the way his mouth moved as his lips circled around the current of cool air. Watched him watching her. Watched his tongue dart out to moisten his lips, and all she could think in that moment was that she wished like hell it was her tongue on his lips. He gave a tiny smile that was part knowing and part agreement. Then he lifted the spoon to her lips and she tasted. He was a very good cook; the sauce was divine. But suddenly, she wasn't very hungry anymore.

For food.

It could wait.

But she didn't think she could.

Not.

Another.

Second.

"And?" Cal asked.

"Exquisite," she said breathlessly. "It makes me want…_more_." Her voice dropped low on the last word. She could feel the heat rushing to her face and neck and chest, a heat that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the man who prepared it.

Cal's eyes searched hers, studying and probing, making sure he was reading the signs right before moving ahead. "Not too hot for you, then?" His voice was soft and uncertain. He was giving her an out if she wanted it.

She met his stare, the stare that made so many people uncomfortable. The stare that looked straight into your soul. And she loved it, to be so completely…known. It was unsettling. It was erotic.

"Cal," her answer sounded warm and rich. "I like it hotter than you think."

He stepped in closer, closer. His forehead brushed the top of her hair. His inhalations caused the briefest, feather-light contact of his chest to hers. His voice came out raw and ragged. "Are we still talking about food, darlin'?"

Gillian's fingertip skimmed across the surface of the curry. She lifted it to Cal's mouth and stroked slowly across his lower lip, locking her eyes with his, "Were we ever?"

Cal's hands came to rest lightly at her hips. She inched her face closer so that his exhales became her inhales.

"You've got a little something—just there. Let me get that for you."

Cal had no idea what good deed he had ever done in his lifetime to deserve this moment – Gillian Foster in his arms, in his kitchen, pressed very _very_ wonderfully snug against him sucking (_sucking_!) Jalfrezi curry from his lower lip – but if he could find out, he would do that good deed again a million times over if only to repeat this beautiful moment ad infinitum.

"Gillian," Cal murmured.

"Mmm," she hummed in reply, eyes closed and still clearly preoccupied with Cal's lip.

"Gillian," Cal tried again.

"Mmmmm," she moaned into his mouth before sliding to his jaw, the stubble there scraping against her swollen lips, then buried her face in his neck and just inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms around him.

He circled her tightly with his arms, and they began to sway. They stayed like that and let their silence work as the minutes ticked by. It seemed to each like an eternity, swaying in perfect synchronicity.

It was a perfect moment in a perfect evening.

When their silence reached its end, Cal spoke because – loathe as he was to rely on spoken word over body language – there were some things he needed Gillian to know before things went any further. They were things she needed to _hear_, not merely see. So he would give her what she needed.

Her terms.

He reached up, his fingertips ghosting lightly over her pale cheek, losing themselves in the soft tangle of her hair. She regarded him with curious eyes.

"Before things go any further between us, there's a couple things you should know," he said softly.

"Gillian." He spoke her name like an invocation, like a sacred thing. He said it by itself and then paused because it was important and because it was beautiful and because it deserved its own space.

"This night, Gillian, it's all you, luv." His eyes searched hers, dipping briefly to her lips, caressing their way back up to capture her gaze. "This can go as far as you want, or it can stop anytime you want. There is absolutely no pressure either way. I wanna be clear on that point. I don't think there's any question," he breathed, "which side of the issue I come down on." This he punctuated with a gentle but insistent grind of his lower body to hers, causing her to sigh in the most brilliant way. "But this isn't about me. I want this to be about you."

Gillian swayed forward – intentionally or not, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was the sweetest, most achingly intense friction; and for a split second, his vision went dusky and stars – actual honest-to-goodness stars – began to shoot across his ceiling and he really started to think the possibility of loss of consciousness from lack of blood to the brain a very real one.

Where he got the presence of mind for it, he would never know because synapses had long since called a ceasefire, and higher brain function had thrown up the white flag and handed the reins over to his baser instincts the moment he opened the door to her. But somehow, with her melting against him, he managed to remember there was one more thing to say. One more thing she should hear. _Needed_ to hear.

Because he _meant_ it.

"Gillian." One rough finger stroked lightly under her chin, lifting her face to his so she would look at him. She needed to hear this with her ears and her eyes. His other hand rested loosely at her waist, his index finger tracing tiny, lazy patterns on the small of her back, on the little patch of exposed skin between the hem of her shirt and the top of her jeans. His touch raised gooseflesh there, and she shuddered and made a small sound that might've been the sweetest sound he had ever heard a woman make. It instantly made him wonder what other sounds he might be able to coax from her, each one sweeter than the last.

"The other thing you need to know – I need for you to know – it's always been you, Gill. I chose…_you_. Long time ago." The weight of his gaze was heavy and almost more than she could bear. It was so direct and so honest and so unlike anything she had ever seen from him that is was painful to look at. "When I first asked you to be my partner – in our business – I chose you. It's part of why Zoë always resented our relationship so much. And that 'choosing you' like that earned me a bed on the sofa for the better part of a month. But it was worth it."

"And I chose you every time I've made stupid decisions that put myself in harm's way but kept you out of it. Because, see," He shifted closer so they were pressed together, like pages in a book. "It may be _my_ science our company is built around, but _you're_ the backbone, Gill. You're the dynamic, driving force that keeps it alive and thriving. So, I'm expendable; you aren't."

She tried to protest. He quieted her, first with a finger pressed gently to her lips, then with a kiss. He pulled away just barely, so that he was speaking against her lips. So she could _feel_ his words as well as hear them. "I chose you when I stepped away from what I wanted – which was you – so you could be with Alec. And then with Dave. And I didn't interfere. Much. Only enough to protect you, yeah? Not to take you for myself, even thought that's what I wanted, Gill. And even though it was killing me to see you with them. Just—I only interfered enough to protect you and only when I was afraid those men would hurt you. Because _you_—you are only ever my priority. Always have been. So don't ever make the mistake of thinking I don't choose you, because I have. Over and over, every day. For years, Gillian. And it's about the only choice I've ever made that I can say I don't regret. Just thought you should know."

And then he kissed her.

Only this time, it wasn't placid or tender or slow-moving like floating on a river. It was an over-the-edge, whitewater rapids kiss, turbulent and tumbling. It was sweaty and urgent and messy. And it was the most perfect kiss any two people ever shared.

It stole her breath away. Figuratively. Poetically. Literally. She came up gasping for air only to drown herself in him again and again.

Somewhere in the background, the music played on, and they were moving with no sense of direction. She advanced, and they stumble-stepped together until he bumped against an end table. He advanced, and they stumble-stepped again until they knocked over a dining table chair and she banged against a bookshelf. On and on they continued their clumsy, amorous dance, kissing passionately and incessantly. His hat fell off with a loud clatter against the polished wooden floor as Gillian backed him into a wall. Instantly, he bounced forward, taking her in a new direction, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair while the other hand pressed flat against the bare skin of her back where her shirt had ridden up, crushing her to him. She already had half the buttons of his shirt undone when her elbow hit something and sent it crashing to the floor.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, pushing back from him, not sure in the dark what she'd just destroyed.

Cal grabbed fistfuls of her shirt and pulled her roughly back to him, covering her mouth with his and trying to speak all at once. "Fuck it. I've always hated that lamp."

Next thing they knew, they fell onto the stairs, her atop him, and slid partway down.

"Gillian, if…" Cal tried. Then they were on the floor, and Gillian was dragging him back into the rapids. He broke the surface and tried again. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. I mean, I really bloody hope you want to, but we can stop. Anytime." Every sentence he spoke was punctuated by a forceful kiss from Gillian. "Really, Gill. Anytime. You just say the word. We'll stop. I can keep talking."

"Cal?" She took his face in her hands and pulled him in close, breathing hard. "Shut. Up."

"You know, I sensed that I should—" His words were stifled by one too many tongues in his mouth.

"Hang on," Cal muttered into her mouth.

"No," she breathed back.

"Stove," he managed.

"What?" she asked, backing off and looking at him quizzically and not a tiny bit exasperated.

Cal was panting. "I need to turn the stove off. Y'know, so we don't burn the house down while we burn the house down. Know what I mean?" He waggled his eyebrows at her in his comically lascivious way and Gillian thought she couldn't possibly want him more.

She traced one finger down his chest and looked up at him coyly. "Tell you what. You go take care of the stove, make sure our dinner stays warm for us for later. And I'll go wait for you in your bed, make sure things stay warm for us in there. Hmm?"

Cal was off the floor and practically at a dead sprint for the kitchen, calling out, "Just don't start without me!"

Gillian was already up the stairs and rounding the corner to his doorway when she called back, "Then you'd better not keep me waiting!"

* * *

"Cor, I could use a cigarette!"

Gillian giggled into his neck and swatted at him weakly. "You don't smoke."

"I could, after that."

They lay in a disheveled, messy tangle of sheets and blankets and limbs, draped over one another in contented exhaustion. Her head was resting on his shoulder with her face nuzzled into his neck. It was her new favourite place. She loved breathing in the scent of him, more now than ever. Cal turned and kissed the top of her head. He lingered there, his face buried in her hair.

"You know, I can't believe you fell for all that bollocks. I only said those things to get into your knickers," he said softly into her hair. "Worked like a charm."

He felt her smile against his chest; it was the best feeling in the world. Well, second-best.

"Me? I can't believe you thought I wanted to hear all that stuff. No, I just wanted to see how many hoops I could make you jump through before I got into _your_ pants."

Cal laughed. "Oh, I say! You're an evil one, you are."

"Damn straight."

He hugged her tight to him, pressing another kiss into her hair. "Perfect for me."

She rolled her head up and kissed his raspy chin. "And don't you forget it."


End file.
